Bored
by wordsaremyfriends
Summary: It will have everything! Humor! Adventure! Romance! Moments of unbearable suspense! Biting sarcasm! ...Does that interest?  I am taking a brief hiatus. Hopefully I'll update soon!
1. Frenching

The title of this fic pertains not only to Sherlock, but to myself. I began writing this in sociology class- when the ways of the world just weren't interesting me.

I do not own Sherlock.

Frenching

Boredom is a bitch. One day, it just bites you, tearing away at your happiness until you cannot stand life's monotony anymore.

Sherlock Holmes was bored. Granted, he was bored ninety percent of the time, but this was worse than usual. He was even considering shoving his tongue down John's throat, just to see how he'd react.

God, it would be bloody hilarious. Of course, knowing John- he'd probably bite. Hard. And then it would cause a certain degree of awkwardness in their relationship. But still. He was bored, and Frenching John might be rather entertaining-

And speak of the devil, there was John now. From the rustling of plastic, Sherlock could tell John had done his domestic duty and bought them some food. About time. Sherlock had recently discovered that- unlike a plant- he cannot sustain himself by just lying around.

The door opened. John struggled inside, trying to support the weight of a dozen bags on one arm. He nearly dropped three of them; a carton of eggs slipped out of one and fell to the floor, making a juicy "splat".

"Oh, bloody hell," he muttered.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile.

"Sherlock- could you give me a hand?" John asked.

"Can't. I'm busy."

"What- lying on the sofa?"

"Mmm. Thinking."

"Oh. That's great," John mumbled as he attempted to hop over the puddle of yolk on the floor.

Sherlock shut his eyes and listened to his roommate shove food into the fridge.

"I'm bored."

John stopped. "Again?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes. Again."

John's mouth gaped. "We were bloody nearly blown up!"

"Yes. I do know that."

"And you're bored again."

"Yes," Sherlock answered slowly, as if speaking to a child.

John, having finished his chore, took a seat near his resting friend. Suddenly, Sherlock opened his eyes; he turned to face John.

The rapidity of the action startled him- he didn't like the look on Sherlock's face.

"What?" he asked nervously.

"I'm bored," Sherlock repeated.

"W-what has that got to do with me?"

Oh God, he was going to die of boredom unless _something _happened. Anything. And John was completely unsuspecting of Sherlock's pending experiment…

John may not like it, but it _would _be something new for Sherlock… he probably wouldn't like it either, but again, it would be different.

He stood up suddenly and walked to John's chair, grabbed his face in both hands, and looked at his eyes.

"Sherlock- what the hell are you doing?" John squealed.

"Taking data."

"What? Get your damn hands off me! I'm not data!"

"Oh, really."

John didn't pull away, nor did he strike Sherlock. He sat there, stupefied, hoping that his friend would soon regain his sanity. It was unlikely. Sherlock, after seeing that John _still_ didn't see his intentions, began to lean in _just_ a little bit. Then a little bit more. John's eyes continued to grow larger. And just when Sherlock could cover the distance in one more, swift movement-

His phone went off. He stood up immediately, searching his pocket for his phone. It was Lestrade. It _had _to be Lestrade.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said into the receiver. He was right. Again. Lestrade didn't give him very many details, but it something nonetheless.

"C'mon John," he said, grabbing his coat. To his credit, John followed, though he still looked a bit like a deer in headlights. "Someone's _finally_ been murdered. What a lovely way to start the day."

**Well, what did you think? I know it was kinda short, but hopefully you liked it anyway. Please review and let me know if I should continue this!**


	2. Bloody Disgusting

I seem to have inspiration for this only when I'm bored. Like in math class today…

Thank you all for reviewing my last chapter!

I own nothing.

Bloody Disgusting

"What have you got for me, Lestrade?" Sherlock demanded as he and John barged into the Detective Inspector's office.

Lestrade smiled.

"Oh, just a little present."

"A present?" How exceedingly dull.

"Yeah. In that box there-" Lestrade answered, gesturing toward the table. On it sat a yellow box; its ribbon and lid had been removed. The contents were only covered by wrinkled, pink tissue paper.

John raised his eyebrows in confusion: was it Sherlock's birthday? No, it couldn't be. Lestrade wouldn't know that.

Sherlock walked slowly toward the table and put his hands on the lid.

"There's no name on here. What makes you think it's for me?"

Lestrade smiled again, obviously enjoying having the upper hand for once. "It's not for you. I don't know who it's for. I just thought you'd like what's inside."

"How considerate of you," Sherlock muttered. His hopes were nearly dashed. He had been so desperately hoping for a good, juicy case. Instead, he got a box. He pushed back the papers, pausing once he saw what was housed within. An odd, almost evil grin came over his face, lighting up his pallid features.

John recognized that look. It was one of pure, sick joy. He leaned toward the box to take at peak at what was inside.

"Oh, God, that's bloody disgusting."

"I know!" Sherlock beamed. "Isn't it wonderful?"

* * *

"Do you know who it belongs to?" John asked.

"No. Not yet. We're about to run the DNA," Lestrade answered.

Sherlock didn't want to wait for DNA testing. He wanted to begin investigating _now_. And so, without further ado, he reached into the box, and pulled out the severed hand. He examined its discolored fingers, as well as the jagged and bloody cut at the wrist for several moments before his companions noticed.

"Oh, shit, Sherlock! Put it back!" Lestrade whined.

"I need to examine it," came the response.

John, despite his time as a soldier, began to feel a little queasy. His breakfast considered coming up for seconds once his flat mate began probing the opened skin, inserting his fingers carefully.

"Alright! Put the hand back."

Sherlock surprised them both when he followed the order.

"Did you just… do what I said?" Lestrade's look was one of bewilderment.

"Yes. I did."

"Why?"

"Because I saw everything I needed to see."

"Such as?" John asked, his face still a little green.

"This is a man's hand- it was cut about nine this morning-"

"Could be. We got the package about an hour ago, and it's past eleven now," Lestrade cut in.

Sherlock sighed. "He was married, but it ended in a messy divorce less than a year ago. Probably an American. I'd say he's forty, maybe forty-five years old. Wealthy, but because of the poor economy, he's been forced to be more frugal. He turned to illicit methods of earning money- got caught up with dangerous people, and it's obviously cost him. But…" his voice trailed off.

Expectant silence.

"But what?" Lestrade asked.

"But he's still alive."

Again, a short silence- broken by John exclaiming, "That's amazing!" Lestrade cast him a tired glance, while Sherlock's ego expanded threefold due to his friend's admiration.

"Isn't it."

"Well…" Lestrade questioned.

"Ah. Of course. I don't feel I need to explain how I knew this was a man's hand… The cut is obviously fresh, besides, no one would keep a hand lying around-"

"Except for you," John interrupted.

"That one time!" Sherlock snapped.

"Wait- hold on! You've got body parts in your flat?"

Sherlock gave Lestrade a look that silenced him instantly.

He cleared his throat. "The pale mark on his finger shows he wore a ring, however it's begun to darken again because he's no longer wearing his wedding band. If his wife had died, there is a good chance he would have continued to wear it. He's tanned, but his hand is orange- tanning lotion. Common in the U.S. Judging from the wrinkles on his knuckles, he's middle aged. His nails are manicured- his skin is perfectly smooth- he's never done hard labor in his life. He obviously has money- however, on closer inspection, you can see that the manicure is imperfect: there are tiny nicks around his nails, so he's doing it himself at home. Keeping up appearances- so he hangs around with a rich crowd, and he doesn't want them to know about his financial difficulties."

"What about the 'illegal moneymaking' part?"

"Really, John. His hand was mailed to the police station. I think that's pretty obvious, don't you?"

**Well, what did you think? By the way… I love reviews. They make me smile. And when I feel smiley, I write. **

***Hint hint***

**Thanks for reading and please review!**


	3. Sigh

I've figured that each chapter is going to be pretty short- that way I'm more likely to update frequently. This is just a short little conversation, but it cracked me up, so hopefully you guys will at least get a _little_ enjoyment out of it.

I do not own Sherlock Holmes.

Sigh

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" his flat mate said exasperatedly.

"You are inhibiting me again. Stop it."

John put down his book.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I am trying to think-"

"And how am I preventing you from thinking?"

Sherlock sighed. "You sigh nonstop; you are a perpetual sigh-er."

"Wha- but you just sighed!"

"There is a massive difference, John-"

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really."

"How?" John asked. He folded his arms defensively across his chest.

"There is no need to take offense, John, I was merely saying that you insist on sighing when it is unnecessary, and even annoying." Sherlock rubbed his hands over his eyes.

After a moment of awkward silence, John burst, "But you just sighed!"

"Your point being? I sighed once- _and only once_- as a way to vocalize my annoyance over your constant little puffs of air."

"And how is my sighing harming you in any way?"

"It's harming my brain activity!"

"Your brain activity is like a hamster running in a wheel-"

"No-"

"-while on some sort of drug."

"Ah. That's better."

John shook his head. "I can sigh all I want."

"Don't be absurd. You won't sigh all you want."

"And why is that?"

Sherlock smiled. "Because I don't want you to, and so you won't."

"Fine! I am done discussing this. If I choose to sigh, that is my business," John snapped. He picked up his book again with an overly dramatic flair. Sherlock paid no heed to the gesture.

"Well?" Sherlock asked.

"Well what?" John answered, falling directly into the trap.

"Aren't you even the least bit curious as to what I am thinking about?"

John thought. "No… should I be?" he asked carefully.

"Think John! Use your own powers of deduction for once!"

"Umm. You were thinking about the case-"

"Yes…" Sherlock pushed.

"-you were thinking about the man's hand that we found."

"Not quite, John."

"So you weren't thinking about the hand?" John was beyond confused.

"Not the hand at the police station. I was thinking about his other hand."

John's mouth gaped in wonder.

"What?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed.

**Well, what did y'all think? (Did that contraption just give away where I'm from? Ha.) Please review and let me know if you liked it, or if you despised it, or if it made you want to eat a muffin. (Better not to ask.) :-)**


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